The Island Pharisees eBook

His own intelligent physiog, raised at a slight slant
so that he might look the better through his nose-nippers,
was the very pattern of approval. “It’s
curious how one’s always meeting with intelligence;”
it seemed to say. Mrs. Dennant paused in the
act of adding cream, and Shelton scrutinised her face;
it was hare-like, and superior as ever. Thank
goodness she had smelt no rat! He felt strangely
disappointed.

“I hope I shall see him again,” cooed
the Connoisseur; “he was quite interesting on
the subject of young German working men. It seems
they tramp from place to place to learn their trades.
What nationality was he, may I ask?”

Mr. Dennant, of whom he asked this question, lifted
his brows, and said,

“Ask Shelton.”

“Half Dutch, half French.”

“Very interesting breed; I hope I shall see
him again.”

“Well, you won’t,” said Thea suddenly;
“he’s gone.”

Shelton saw that their good breeding alone prevented
all from adding, “And thank goodness, too!”

“Gone? Dear me, it’s very—­”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dennant, “very sudden.”

“Now, Algie,” murmured Mrs. Dennant, “it
‘s quite a charmin’ letter. Must
have taken the poor young man an hour to write.”

“Oh, mother!” cried Antonia.

And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had
suddenly remembered that her French was better than
her mother’s.

“He seems to have had a singular experience,”
said the Connoisseur.

“Yes,” echoed Mr. Dennant; “he ’s
had some singular experience. If you want to
know the details, ask friend Shelton; it’s quite
romantic. In the meantime, my dear; another
cup?”

The Connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded
malice, spurred his curiosity to a further effort;
and, turning his well-defended eyes on Shelton, murmured,

“Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it
seems.”

“There is no history,” said Shelton, without
looking up.

“Ah, that’s very dull,” remarked
the Connoisseur.

“My dear Dick,” said Mrs. Dennant, “that
was really a most touchin’ story about his goin’
without food in Paris.”

Shelton shot another look at Antonia; her face was
frigid. “I hate your d—–­d
superiority!” he thought, staring at the Connoisseur.

He cared not a straw for Ferrand, his coming, going,
or his history; for, looking at Antonia, his heart
was heavy.

CHAPTER XXX

THE LADY FROM BEYOND

The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia
was at her music, and from the room where Shelton
tried to fix attention on a book he could hear her
practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an
added gloom upon his spirit. He did not see
her until lunch, and then she again sat next the Connoisseur.
Her cheeks were pale, but there was something feverish
in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused
to look at Shelton. He felt very miserable.
After lunch, when most of them had left the table,
the rest fell to discussing country neighbours.